


Ripper

by onlyliquidsunshine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Female Presenting Crowley, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Sex Work, The Arrangement, Victorian era, Violence, female!Crowley, look we all know that crowley is a virgin but not in this story mate, prostitute!crowley, romantic rescues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyliquidsunshine/pseuds/onlyliquidsunshine
Summary: "It starts, as many things have in their respective Earthly careers, as gossip."When England's first major serial killer, (one that has been dubbed Jack the Ripper,) paints the town of Whitechapel in blood, Aziraphale and Crowley agree to extend the terms of their arrangement in order to bring the murderer down together. But things become complicated when Crowley, who is already playing the part of a prostitute this century, decides that the only way to find the man is to become the prime target for the serial killer.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

It starts, as many things have in their respective Earthly careers, as gossip.

“Did you hear?” A young woman tells Aziraphale one day as she purchases a book from his shop. “About the murders?”

“Murders? What murders?” He is wrapping her book impossible slow in the paper, hoping she’ll get frustrated and leave without it.

“Down in Whitechapel. String of dead whores found in the streets. All different nights, no relation other than the location and the fact that they’re whores.”

“That’s dreadful.”

“It is!” She sounds too excited to truly agree with him. “They call the murderer ‘Jack the Ripper’. Because, well, you know.”

He pretends to nod in understanding and gives her a strained smile. “Any leads on catching the madman?”

“Not yet. You can read all about it in the paper, they write on him everyday. What he did, stories and speculations. Here, you may have my copy, I finished it earlier.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a page from this morning's newspaper, handing it over to him.

“Why thank you dear.” He takes it. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“And I you, Sir. Good day.” She beams and leaves, Aziraphale waving her out as she goes. Using a minor miracle for a confusion spell wasn’t ethical, per say, or even that clever. But she had gone as far as the register with that book, and Aziraphale was to be damned if he lost his copy of the first draft of _Hamlet_. So what if she suddenly believed that her only purpose in the store was to give him that bit of the paper? She was done with it anyways it had seemed.

Aziraphale, tired of human interaction for the day, flipped the sign of his shop to ‘closed’. He was open for a grand total of three hours that day, and had enough of that. He locked the door and made his way for the kitchen. Crowley was meant to make his way over that afternoon for tea, and he could start setting up the tea and tray of cookies that Crowley wouldn’t touch but admire.

As the water boils in the kettle Aziraphale wanders over to the newspaper left on his counter. He was meant to be arranging the cookies, but the story entranced him. Humans were beautiful and wonderful and brilliant, but without a doubt, odd. 

“Romanticizing a serial killer, huh?” He mumbles, putting on his glasses and beginning to read.

It was, Aziraphale is embarrassed to admit, quite enticing. The stories and theories were rich, so much so that it was easy to forget that these were souls being ripped away and brutally dismembered before their time. Without realizing, Aziraphale miracles the other newspaper clippings of the story.

The kettle goes off, its screeching and screaming falls upon deaf ears as Aziraphale reads. He’s always enjoyed a good mystery, and this is one he could possibly solve, while saving some humans in turn.

“You left the kettle on again, angel.” An effeminate voice says from the doorway. Aziraphale looks up for the first time in a while, and Crowley is standing there, arms crossed and smiling.

Crowley had chosen a female appearance this century, and Aziraphale had to admit that it worked wonders on him. His hair was long, just like it was in Golgotha, and his curls were tight and purposeful. Today he had his hair up in a braided bun, glasses on his nose as always, and was wearing a black and grey dress, one that was cut lower than appropriate on his chest, and the sleeves tight to show off his thin arms and delicate wrists.   
“Ah. It appears I have.”

Crowley turns the stove off with a wave. “What did you distract yourself with this time?”

Aziraphale holds up the paper. “The newest mystery that has London on the edge of their seat. Have you heard about it?” Crowley shakes his head and sits on the couch across from Aziraphale, sitting up abnormally straight for him, causing the angel to forget all about the murders. 

“You’re wearing a corset again, aren’t you, dear?” He asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. “You know those are bad for your ribs.”

“It’s what’s in _fashion_ , angel. You can’t expect an upper class woman to go around town without a corset on.” Crowley takes off his gloves, setting them next to him on the couch. “Besides, all your worries about it are nonsense. I’m a _demon._ Any medical issues you think they cause won’t affect me.”

“That may be, but-”

“Tell me about this mystery.” 

“Oh! Yes.” He shuffles through the papers. “Whitechapel, you are familiar with that place?” At Crowley's nod he continues. “Well a couple of women have been murdered. Brutally. All the same way, police fear they have a serial killer.” He hands over the papers, and once Crowley starts reading them Aziraphale goes to the kitchen, pouring them both a cup of tea.

“This is awful, angel.” Crowley says as he walks back in the room with their tea and cookies. “There’s no reason for these murders, no pattern.”

“Yes, I agree.” Aziraphale takes the papers from Crowley and replaces it with a mug. “Which got me thinking, is this Hell’s work?”

“It shouldn’t be, Whitechaple is my jurisdiction, they would have told me if they were sending in others.”

“See, that’s what I thought too. Didn’t you used to work in Whitechapel?”

“Three years ago. Whitechapel is low for me. I’m upper class.” Crowley scoffs. “Really angel, you think I would continue to work there?”

“Oh well I wouldn’t know! I’ve never rented a-a ...” He trails off, his cheeks turning red.

“A what angel? Go on you can say it.” He teases

“You know what I mean.” Aziraphale huffs, grabbing a cookie and dipping it in the tea as a distraction. Crowley’s profession wasn’t a new development, he partook in it from time to time, claiming that it was a good way to promote low grade evil and it was fun for him too. For whatever reason though, these past few years Crowley’s profession had made Aziraphale rather… jealous. There was no other word for it. He would tense at the idea of other men touching Crowley’s wrists, undoing his corset, kissing the back of his neck…

“Oi, angel.” Crowley interrupts his humiliating thoughts. “With me?”

“Yes perfectly.” He clears his throat and goes for another cookie. “I was just thinking, you know, as an angel watching over the humans here, I should probably go take care of it. Find this ‘Jack the Ripper’ and stop him.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Crowley repeats shaking his head. “Sorry angel, but if it’s a demon I’m not risking that. Another demon wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you. And if another demon saw an angel in _my_ jurisdiction…”

The silence was enough of an answer. Crowley would be punished if it was found out he was not keeping Aziraphale at arm's lengths. “Then what do you suggest I do? I can’t just let a demon keep murdering people like this.”

“I can go talk to Hell. See if it’s us. If it is I’ll see why the Heaven another demon is on my property. If it’s not a demon then we’re in the clear.”

“No, not in the clear. I could get orders any day to rid of this killer. I should still take care of it.”

“ _No._ Angel this is Whitechapel. It’s dirty and gross and you wouldn’t last a moment there. They would eat you alive. I’ll take care of it. My treat.”

“Are you out of your mind Crowley?” Aziraphale puts down his tea cup. “This is a serial killer going after whores. You are a prime target, you are not going in the lion's den.”

“Then we go together.”

“Excuse me?”

“An extension of the arrangement. If it’s not a demon we track down the killer together. We’ll protect each other.”

“Will Hell allow that?”

“Ah, they don’t check anything anyways. So, we have a deal?”

Crowley outstretches his hand and as every deal and arrangement they’ve made over the years, Aziraphale hesitates.

Working close to Crowley is dangerous, and it’s been getting riskier as the years have progressed. Heaven checks in more, and he can smell the extra demons roaming around Earth if he concentrates. Getting caught at this point isn’t a matter of if, but of _when_ . He knows Crowley can sense it too. The demon has become more withdrawn, wearing thicker glasses and hissing at Aziraphale if the angel compliments or thanks him louder than a barely there whisper. 

He should say no. He knows he should, for both of their safety and for the sake of keeping up appearances. But by God, hunting down the first major serial killer with this enticing demon was a temptation too rich to pass up.

“Deal.” He says, clasping Crowley’s thin hand. “It’s a deal.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Crowley was never the greatest fan of going to work.

In about a hundred years or so, Crowley will invent the eight hour work day with minimal breaks. Out of everything he will do in his six thousand years, this one act will fill his quotas the most. It is, without a doubt, fair to say that the inspiration came from his own personal experiences.

He wraps his shawl tighter around his shoulders as he sinks deeper into the water, entering Hell. Hell isn’t cold, not by a long shot. Nor is it hot. The place is disgustingly _humid_. The thin layer of water that separates him from heaven constantly leaks and drips onto the heated rocks and rotting demons, mixing with the breathy screams and groans of the damned. This type of humidity is too gross, even for his snake instincts to enjoy, and he can already feel the sticky air and grime cling to his exposed skin.

“Crawly.” A demon with symptoms of trench foot on their face greets. Hell did not respect name changes. He thinks her name is Raeon. “Long time.”

“Oh not so long.” He says, keeping his voice neutral. “Only fifty earth years.”

“Too long.” Her hair is a brown sludge, similar to the newest horsemen’s sweat. “You smell… clean.”

And there it was, one of Crowley’s top ten fears. Due to natural personality and forced circumstances, Crowley was an anxious demon. More anxious than any occult entity _should_ be. He’s spent many nights and mornings scrubbing his skin clean, making certain that boils and mold wouldn’t start growing on him. He has had to perfect his acting skills, otherwise he would gag and cringe anytime he was expected to interact with his own kind. Thankfully, it appeared that spores weren’t attracted to him, as it already took enough energy to hide his other demon features.

“Ah well, gotta keep up with human appearances. Now if you’ll excuse me-” he tries to brush past them but is caught roughly by his upper arm. 

“You don’t have to be here.” And good god, that is a purr coming from the demon. “You’re one of us, after all.” Crowley’s breath hitches as the demon reaches forward and takes his glasses, crushing them in her hands.

Crowley’s main defense armor has been breached, and he backs away with a shaky jerk. He trips on his skirt, and his corset constricts his middle to the point of being painful. 

The demon snickers in delighted fun as Crowley stumbles. “You get too comfortable up there, Crawly.” They say before turning and slinking back into the stuffy crowd of other demons. 

Crowley takes a moment to breathe and collect himself. Blessed Satan he hated coming to work. He miracles himself another pair of sunglasses, and changes his clothing from his dress to a pair of slacks, black button up shirt, and a red vest. It was easier, cleaner, and just… safer, to dress this way in Hell. 

He slithers through the crowds, avoiding eye contact as much as he can with the others. He makes his way to Hastur, a recently promoted demon who will hopefully have answers.

“Hassstur.” Crowley hisses in greeting. Hell has always brought out the worst of his habits.

“Crawly. Long time.” Hastur looks up with a grin. “You missed my promotion ceremony. I’m a Duke now.”

“Yes well I had business. But I did get the newsletter. And actually, that’s why I’m here, I’m hoping your new status could help me out.” Technically, Crowley was higher ranking than the majority of demons here. If he wanted, he could sit beside Beezlebub. But by his request, his status is kept under wraps. To Beezlebub, it’s so that the angels won’t have a clear understanding of how important he is, but for Crowley, it’s a precaution. Something to keep him safe and under the radar.

“Ah well I suppose I’m all ears then.”

“Hastur, have any new demons been assigned to England? Specifically Whitechapel?” Hastur hums, tapping his chin as a maggot inches out of his ear. 

“Not that I know of. I don’t really assign you lot, I just keep you in line.”

“Duke Hastur, will you then get me an audience with the Prince? It’s an urgent matter about Whitechapel. I fear a lower demon is encroaching on my territory.”

“Sure thing Crawly, follow me.”

Here’s the thing. _Here’s the thing._ Crowley is higher rank than Hastur, he doesn’t need him to get to Beezlebub. But Crowley is truly the demon of temptation, of flattery, of trickery into his own preservation and benefit. If he just shrugged and walked away from Hastur, that would leave a bad taste in the demons already rotting mouth, and he Crowley didn’t need more on his plate to fix.

“Lord Beezlebub, I, Duke Hastur, present the demon Crawly.” He booms, bowing low. Crowley follows suit, miracling up a hat to tip as well. 

“Crawly.” Beezlebub isn’t at their throne, or private office. They are in a main corridor looking through files. “Did we have a report meeting?”

“No your evilness.” Crowley straightens back up. “I just am in need of some assistance. A favor if you would.”

“Spit it out then.”

“My lord, have any demons been assigned to Whitechapel, England?” Beezlebub frowns, reading some paperwork and most likely only half listening.

“Yes. You.”

“Anyone other than me.” He tries to not sound desperate.

“No. Whitechapel is your territory. If that is all-”

“It’s not.” Something in his voice must’ve changed, because Beezlebub’s head snaps up. “Your lordship, there have been a string of violent murders in Whitechapel, I thought it was a demon's presence.”

“Hm. Well it’s not. But Crawly,” they grin. “You should be _happy_. A human is clearly making your job easier.”

“Well I’m not.” He spits out. When he gave Eve the apple, when he gave humans _choice_ , he didn’t expect they would come to this. “It’s attracting angels.” He lies through his teeth professionally. “And not just the regular one that hangs around Soho. Others are showing up.” Beezlebub and Hastur both stiffen. “I understand that this human is spreading evil, but with your permission, I would like to kill him, sending him to your arms early.”

“Why-”

“To avoid collision. My prince I am not the greatest fighter. I can’t hold back more than two angels and we can’t risk them in Whitechapel. That place is too much of an asset to us.”

Beelzebub groans and tugs at their greasy hair. “Very well. You have my authority.”

“Thank you my lord.” He bows low and counts slowly to three. Once he is at three, a miracle crackles around him and he is back safely at the front of his expensive house in England.

Crowley, this decade, is not a modest woman. His house is three stories, filled with empty rooms that never collect dust. As he walks up to the door, his male clothing flutters off of him, and is replaced with the dress he originally wore, his heels, stockings, gloves and ribbons woven in his hair. His clothing is all overtly expensive, and his _clients._ He doesn’t take a client that can’t pay him a hundred an hour.

“Madam Crowley?” He doesn’t even realize that he’s walked into his home until his butler interrupts his train of thought. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes of course.” The butler is the only servant he has, mostly to keep up appearances. He doesn’t need a cook or a maid, but a wealthy woman without servants would raise questions. And much to Crowley’s great annoyance and his best efforts, he has grown rather attached to this human.

“You are later than I expected you. Mister Fell didn’t keep you, did he?” He steps forward and takes Crowley’s hand, carefully taking off the demons gloves. Crowley sighs and lets him, his wrists and fingers falling limp.

“Ronny, Aziera has done nothing to warrant your distrust in him.” They have had this conversation a million times, and they will have it till Edward is no longer working for Crowley.

“Hmph.” His butler sticks up his nose and delicately folds Crowley’s shawl. “Can I get any food or tea for you my lady?”

“No thank you. I need to write a letter.”

“To Aziera?”

“...Yes.”

“You were just there.” 

Crowley cringes. There is no romantic tension or subtext with his butler. Ronny is aware of Crowley’s profession and makes no major comments about it, not to mention Crowley can’t smell any form of jealousy on him. But something about Aziraphale has always thrown the human off, which is one of the strangest things he or Aziraphale have ever encountered. In their thousands years on earth, they haven’t met any human other than Ronny who did not like being around an angel. 

“I just want him to know I got home safe.” Crowley mumbles, ducking his head.

“He would know that if he walked your home, or called for a carriage for you like any gentlemen should.”   
“Ronald-”

“I understand my lady.” At least Ronny knows when to drop a subject. “I’ll start the fire in your sitting room and get you a paper and ink.”

“Thank you.”

He watches his butler bow softly and walk away to prepare the materials and room for Crowley. He follows shortly after, pushing his glasses up his nose and folding his arms.

His sitting room is filled with dark, modern furniture. The fire is roaring as Ronny promised, and on the table next to the pad of paper and ink is a small tray of sandwiches and a teapot. There was no way he had time to prepare the sandwiches in the time it took from Crowley to walk from the mudroom to here, which means he did it earlier. Which implies that Crowley was much later than he probably told his butler that he would be. Crowley sighs and rubs the back of his neck, maybe he should get Ronny a new pocket watch as an apology for worrying him so much.

He sits down gracefully and pours himself a cup of tea. He doesn’t wait for it to cool before taking a sip of it, trying to decide on what to tell Aziraphale in his letter about what he learned. In the end he decides that the best course of action is a short and down to the point letter.

_‘Jack the Ripper is human.’_

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive.”

“But they could’ve lied to you-”

“Not about this. Beezlebub wouldn’t lie about territory.”

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip in thought as he and Crowley continue their stroll through St. James Park. When he received Crowley’s letter yesterday evening, he was hoping, dare he say,  _ praying, _ that the killer would be as simple as a demon overstepping their bounds.   
“I just never thought that humans could… do such  _ evil. _ ” Aziraphale sighs, his disappointment and sadness affecting the ducks and grass nearby. 

Crowley lets out a loud, unlady like laugh that startles Aziraphale out of his thoughts. “Truly angel? You and I have both seen these humans do worse. We’ve led wars for them, we’ve seen them fight for their own enjoyment. How are you so upset?”

“Well maybe they aren’t meant to be like this.” He snaps back, on edge that Crowley appears to be making fun of him. “It may be a human but it could be a demonic influence. You  _ worked  _ there after all.” The second he sees Crowley cringe he regrets the statement. “I-”

“Could be.” Crowley recovers quickly, always faster than Aziraphale. Crowley could take a punch and a slap and be back on his toes and grinning before Aziraphale would even realize that he raised his hand. He admires that in Crowley, it’s not something he’s good at, if Gabriel’s condescending tone towards him was anything to judge with. “Demonic influence or no, the killer is a human and we will proceed with our plan.”

Aziraphale hums and messes a bit with his top hat. “And what exactly  _ is  _ the plan?” 

“We rid of him, before Heaven decides to intervene.” 

“How?”

Crowley kicks a pebble on their path, not quite looking up at Aziraphale. “Well, if he were to say… fall to a similar fate that his victims do, that would do the job quite nicely.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps and picks up his pace for a second so that he can move in front of the demon, momentarily freezing their walk. “I can't… I can’t  _ kill  _ somebody!”

“Why not? You said it yourself, he’s more evil than you could imagine humans to be.”

“Because that would be sinking to his level!”

“No it wouldn’t,” Crowley offers his arm up to be held, inviting Aziraphale to continue their walk. “It would be doing your job. Protecting humanity, avenging God’s creations. Very angel like of you.”

Aziraphale chews his lip in thought. Crowley isn’t wrong, but it’s not enough to change his mind. 

“No,” he sighs. “I can’t Crowley. I just can’t.”

“Come off it angel.” Crowley purrs, his voice low and his eyes poking out over his glasses. “Don’t think of it as murder, just justice.” The temptation lays on thick, Aziraphale knows most of Crowley’s tricks at this point. Due to his faith and a small built in shield as an angel, Aziraphale can deflect temptations fairly easily.

“I  _ can’t. _ ” Crowley sighs at the response and drops his arm.

“Right. Then we’ll just figure out what we do when we find him.” 

“And how do we do that? A miracle?” Aziraphale tries to not let his eyes dart to Crowley’s arm that is no longer being offered.

“Mm. Unsure about you, but for me it’s not that easy. I need a face, or a real name. But I can only assume ‘Jack’ is a placeholder, and while the papers  _ did _ give a description, I don’t want to risk miracling the wrong person in case those features are exaggerated or made up.”

“It’s the same for me.” Aziraphale says, his shoulders slumping.

“So we find him. Good old fashioned detective work.”

“How?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

They start their walk again, this time in silence. Aziraphale can’t tell what crowley is thinking, or plotting. The demon has his glasses firmly on his nose again, and he’s walking stiffly. If he crosses his eyes a bit, he can see Crowley’s wings on another plane of existence, tightly curled against his back. Unsure if the demon is even paying attention anymore, Aziraphale reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small pouch of stale bread to toss to the ducks while they walk. They manage to lap the park twice before Crowley speaks up again.

“It’s getting late. I should be getting home.”

“Do you work tonight?”

“Yes.” A strange flare of jealousy rushes through Aziraphale, and it’s strong enough to cause the temperature around them to grow colder. “But I can always cancel. If you wanted to…” He trails off, leaving the offer in the open for Aziraphale to interpret. 

“I have some lovely wine at the bookshop, if you wished to…” Aziraphale winces. It’s awkward, it always is awkward when they get to this part of their day. Neither of them can just bite the bullet and offer their own company.

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t.” But didn’t Crowley just…? “Ronny has been rather cross with you. Nothing out of the norm-”

“He’s banned you from the bookshop again?”

“You aren’t escorting me home.” Crowley explains, the snakey bastard sounding smug. 

“I don’t  _ need  _ to escort you home.” He huffs. He gets rather riled up when he is reminded that Crowley’s butler doesn’t like him. “You are perfectly capable.”

“Yes but Ronny doesn’t know that. He thinks you’re leaving your old childhood maiden friend to walk the streets of London alone.” 

That’s their story. Crowley’s butler believes that he and Crowley grew up as neighbors and close friends, which explains why they are around each other so much, and why they are so close. The story didn’t ease the overbearing butler though, if anything it made him more agitated and snippy towards Aziraphale. 

“I do work tonight angel. But I’ll cancel if you want to come over. I have that earl grey you like, and we can work further on our plan to capture Jack.” Crowley doesn’t look at Aziraphale when he says this, and he’s fiddling with his gloves, a nervous tick Aziraphale has noticed over the years. 

“I shouldn’t.” Aziraphale says quietly. “I really shouldn’t, you know this. It isn’t safe.”

“Demons don’t pop into my house like angels pop into yours. We’ll be okay. Come over.”

There’s no temptation laced in the demon's voice, just pure adoration and want. It’s always too much for Aziraphale. The amount that Crowley wants to be with him, the amount of desire and joy the demon radiates when he is around the angel.

“Oh very well.” Aziraphale sighs. Oh he does hope that he hides his own desire better than Crowley. “But I expect dinner.”

“You always do.”

\---------

Crowley walked with a lighter step once Aziraphale agreed to come over. They ordered a cabbie to take them back to his house, and Crowley has to fold his hands tightly on his lap to hide that they’re shaking in excitement. He doesn’t expect anything from this night, not in a long shot. He knows the angel doesn’t - no - can’t feel the same. Not for a prostitute demon like himself. But he can savor the others company, let his smell and warmth sink in his skin and his voice echo in his ears. 

The drive is a blur. They don’t speak and Crowley is too focused on thinking about what he should have Ronny make for dinner, what would take the longest and make Aziraphale the most happy so that he stays longer. Maybe some dish with lamb. Or seafood. Azirpahale has always enjoyed seafood-

“Dearest. We’re in front of your house.” Aziraphale interrupts his thoughts with. 

“Ah. It seems so.” He pays the cabbie and steps out, careful to ensure that his dress doesn’t get caught in the door. He waits till Aziraphale is by his side before walking to the house.

“Miss Crowley!” Ronny greets when Crowley opens the door. His butler makes his way to the front foyer and his face comically falls and then goes stoic when he sees Aziraphale. “And Mr. Fell.”

“Ronny.” Crowley hides a snort at the tone. Aziraphale wants so badly to be liked and approved of by this human. “Good to see you again.”

“You would see me more if you walked the Miss home from when she visits-”

“Ronald.” Crowley whips his gaze at the human. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses but the glare works nonetheless.

“I’ll make dinner then.” Ronny grumbles, first taking Crowley's gloves and coat before bowing and scurrying away.

“I really don’t understand why he dislikes me so.” Aziraphale whines, hanging his own coat and hat.

“Don’t worry about it angel. Really.”

“It’s just so upsetting-”

“Hush. Go to the sitting room. Ronny will get you tea while I go change.”

“Oh alright.” Aziraphale sighs, always for the dramatics, and leaves to navigate Crowley’s house alone. He’s been to the house enough times that Crowley doesn’t fret over it.

Crowley takes the stairs up to his room two at a time, and locks his bedroom door behind him. His room is the picture of luxury. A large dresser, a beautiful black vanity table, and a bed larger than his arm span. He does take his clients up in his own room, it’s not as though it’s reserved for anyone special.

Crowley snaps and the buttons on the back of his dress fall apart on their own, and he steps out of the complicated garment, and lets the slip underneath slide off. With another snap his dress is hung up on the closet door for Ronny to iron and spot clean later.

Next is the corset.

“Blasted… Thing…” Crowley gasps as he reaches for the tied knot at the bottom of the corset. It’s too difficult so he leaves it to a miracle, leaning over his bed to catch his breath. A month ago he had no problem with this. It would be on as tight as it could go, and he could escape out of it without indents left on his skin. His ribs wouldn’t be in pain either, it was nice and made him look even more otherworldly than usual.

But now there's a sharp undeniable pain in his chest. He can’t breathe right either, (maybe that was at the fault of taking the stairs quickly in heels. Yes that had to be it.) And it started leaving marks in his flesh.

_ “You know doctors are claiming that these things can really injure you.” _

_ “Of course they are angel. I designed them that way.” _

_ “Crowley-!” _

_ “No no look. Every demon these days are going on the sex sin angle. But  _ fashion _. The pain, the vanity, the pure absurdity in what people will do to look fashionable… This is a new sin I’m forming and I want to be trying it with these humans.” _

_ “You are not the first to create fashion darling.” _

_ “I know that-” _

_ “And you have always been on the top of fashion. And now you want to taint it like this?” _

_ “I’m a demon. It’s what I do.” _

Crowley recalls the first time that Aziraphale noted his corset as the strings slowly pull out of their hold. This miracle is slower, not as fast as the buttons. Each lace that comes undone is a relief, and maybe Aziraphale does have a point about how this clothing trap was bad for him. But it was… a source of attention. A childish one, but one all the same.

_ “I have to go bless a birth, but there’s a play that I don’t want to miss.” The bookshop is hot, or maybe it’s the alcohol that Crowley has been drinking. _

_ “I’ll go for you.” _

_ “Oh, really?” And Satan, if Aziraphale lit up like that everytime Crowley did something for him, he would take Aziraphale’s full workload. _

_ “Yeah, arrangement and all that. You’ll pay me back later.” _

_ “I suppose I will. You’ll have to change, however, not many women doctors these days.” _

_ “Help me out of this dress then.” Crowley says with an obnoxious wink. _

_ Any by the devil Aziraphale stands up, his hands fluttering against the buttons on Crowley’s back till they falter. _

_ “Is that a corset?” _

He sighs as the corset is released from his body completely. It falls to the floor and he goes to his closet to find a simple black evening dress. Something appropriate enough around Aziraphale that Ronny won't have a heart attack, but something much softer. He wishes he could recall that memory better, remember exactly how Aziraphales hands felt as he took off Crowley’s dress, how they curled around the top of the corset when Aziraphale discovered it, the angels knuckles digging in his spine. He proceeded to scold Crowley when he found it, but it was out of concern and his hand never left his skin.

“Ah,” Crowley glances down, feeling a slight wetness build between his legs. “Do not. Not now. Not when he’s this close.”

His body, never one to listen to him, continues. And his mind, the bloody blasted damned thing, is worse. Aziraphale would be slow with his corset, wouldn’t he? Take it off carefully cause even if the angel hated and distrusted the garment, he wouldn’t hurt something he knew Crowley treasured.

Oh maybe he could take five minutes to himself real quick. It never took long with Aziraphale on his mind, surely he had enough time-

Downstairs, the kettle whistles.

  
  



End file.
